


The Forty Thieves

by PoetHrotsvitha



Category: Star Wars Sequel Trilogy
Genre: F/M, Gangsters, Math Nerds in Love, Peaky Blinders AU, Period appropriate underoos, References to Prostitution, Smut, Violence, noir
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-10-21
Updated: 2019-02-02
Packaged: 2019-08-05 11:56:34
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 8,914
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16367354
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/PoetHrotsvitha/pseuds/PoetHrotsvitha
Summary: The city is a shithole and smells exactly like one. The job is grinding and messy and doesn't allow a big margin for error. His colleagues would ideally be at the bottom of a river, put there by his own hand. The girl behind the bar, though... She might just be the only redeeming thing about the place.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [t0bemadeofglass](https://archiveofourown.org/users/t0bemadeofglass/gifts).



The more liquor burns its way down his throat, the more tolerable the evening becomes.

Hux is crowing about something, surrounded by his sycophants, giving his fourteenth toast. He’s barely visible through the haze of cigar smoke, but the red hair catches the light of the low lamps. It’s an advantage because it lets Kylo avoid him even when he’s so drunk that he can barely see.

It’s bad enough that he’s in this dirty industrial city, consigned to an even dirtier neighbourhood. Staying in a damp room above this pub, with peeling wallpaper and a too-small bed. Mould on the ceiling, mice in the walls. The grim lines of row-housing run so tightly together along the street outside that two automobiles could barely pass each other, and the smell of burning coal and rotting vegetables hang permanently in the air. It’s a shithole.

But it might be a tolerable shithole without Hux.

At least the girl serving the drinks is beautiful. Slim, short curled hair, big eyes smudged with black in a way that make them look even bigger. Faded grey dress that cuts below her knees and hugs her tiny waist just right. He’s decided that she’s the one tolerable person in this dump. Especially after he caught her giving Hux and his cronies an impressively evil eye behind their backs. He respects that in anyone, and even more when that someone is pretty and female.  

He gestures her over with a flick of his fingers. She wordlessly pours him another shot of whiskey like the absolute angel that she is, and he tips it back to forget.

 

* * *

 

Everyone who _isn’t_ part of a shady criminal syndicate has long gone home and the evening is winding down when Hux’s voice cuts through the smoke. “I don’t think so, girlie. We’re not paying that.”

Kylo cranes over his shoulder and squints. The barmaid is standing at their table, collecting their glasses. He doesn’t hear her response.

“Your maths are wrong,” Hux insists, “I didn’t even see you take anything down.”

Her body language grows angrier, shifting her hip as she takes another empty glass. Kylo still can’t hear what she’s saying, her back facing him.

“Like _shit_ you take it all down in your head. Pull the other one, sweetheart. We’re not paying that.”

This is an opportunity that he can’t miss. Kylo swivels around on his bar stool, very nearly tipping off it, and yells across the room. “How much?”

The girl’s head snaps to stare at him, and he’s struck by how direct her gaze is. “22 pound, 12 pence, and 4 shillings,” she grits out.

An amount that is unquestionably worth the chance to make Hux look like a cheap bastard. “I’ve got it,” he says, earning some happy whoops from the First Order cronies. Hux looks just as furious as he’d hoped, and Kylo gets to bask in satisfaction as he watches them all stagger to their feet and up the stairs. No doubt back to their assorted rooms to pass out until tomorrow morning.

The girl, for her part, walks back to him with a big tray full of empty glasses. She’s got to be stronger than she looks, to make it seem so effortless. She takes the money from his hand, counts out his change from the pocket of her apron, and diligently puts everything in the till. Then she picks up a rag and goes back to wiping the bar, steadily ignoring him. They’re the only ones down here now.

Kylo digs his cigarette clip out of his coat, holding the slim paper roll to the lighter, pleased that his hands are steady enough not to shake. “Did you really tally all that up in your head?”

Her jaw works a little. “Yes.”

It’s the very skill that Snoke took notice of in him, so many years ago. The one that makes him such an excellent bookie, accountant, and loans manager. “Take three, add forty-six and a half, multiply by seven and divide by forty-two.”

She doesn’t even hesitate. “A little over seven and eight-tenths.”

One long drag of his cigarette isn’t nearly enough time to process the fact that this is the first time he’s met someone who is as fast— no, maybe _faster_ — than he is at that particular trick. “What’s your name?”

She’s much less willing to answer that one. “… Rey,” she finally says, as if he’s prying it from her head.

“Rey.” He likes the sound of it. It’s unusual and pretty, just like her. “Why the hell do you work here?”

The stain that she’s scrubbing at is never going to come off the bar. It’s probably older than she is. “Plutt took me in. I owe him the cost of raising me. I can’t leave until I earn it back, and I wouldn’t make it two blocks without his thugs dragging me back here.”

Plutt. He met that one earlier, the pub owner, fat and round and balding. Man was entirely too thrilled to have the First Order staying in his building. Kylo purses his lips and lets the burning smoke whistle out through his teeth. He feels like he’s sobering up by the minute. “How much?”

She stills and scowls at the counter. Her shoulders rise and fall with each small breath, fists clenched so tight that her knuckles are white. “Why are you asking so many questions?”

“I’m curious. Humour me.”

She’s still staring at her hands like they’ve personally offended her. “…Two hundred pounds.”

A lot of money for anyone to make. A full year’s wage for a man slaving away at a factory. An impossible sum for a girl making a pittance behind a bar, collecting tips and lewd comments from stingy customers.

Barely a drop in the bucket for him.

He stubs out the cigarette. “I’ll pay it.”

“What?”

Eyeing the delicate line of her collarbone and the way that it disappears under her shirt, he wonders if her skin is as soft as it looks. “Come work for me.”

She blinks up at him with big eyes, doe-like, and his stupid heart jumps in his chest. “You are… Mad.”

Probably. “Could use a brain like yours. Come work for me, and I’ll pay off your debt. I’ll even throw in another two hundred as a joining bonus.”

“You’re joking,” she says, breaking his gaze with a shake of her head and a disbelieving laugh. “This is some sort of elaborate trick to get me into bed, isn’t it? And then you disappear in the morning and I’m none the richer. I wasn’t born yesterday.”

Wordlessly, he digs out his pocket book and pulls out four crisp hundred-pound bills and lays them in front of her.

She’s stopped breathing. Her hand twitches towards the money and she immediately cradles it back to her chest, staring down at her fingers like they’ve betrayed her.

For some reason, that hurts. He _likes_ this girl, with her quick mind and her sharp retorts. He likes her slim hips and the long slope of her neck. Perhaps it’s the alcohol, but he had hoped that she might jump at the chance, that perhaps she had thought him attractive too, that they could build something side by side—

Humiliation and self-loathing, old friends, claw up his throat and rip at his heart. They burn more than the liquor did. What is he thinking? What does he know about this girl, after all? One night’s impressions under the influence of drink. A mistaken sense of kinship because they share a skill. So what? “Forget about it,” he says, pushing away from the counter. “Forget I said anything.”

He’s almost to the stairs when she calls after him, voice pitched with panic. “You— you forgot your money!”

“Keep it.” It would be embarrassing to turn around. He’s spent more on stupider things.

 

* * *

 

Negotiations with the local smugglers go about as well as expected, Hux leading the way with a revolver in hand. Most people are more pliable after watching a compatriot’s brains get splattered across a dock, and this lot are no exception. That's one more group down— now there’s just the matter of ensuring that the police won’t get in the way of the First Order’s shipping, but that’s tomorrow’s work. And then they can leave. So soon, now.

Rey is not behind the bar this time when they all troop back to the pub, and Kylo is disappointed until he remembers that _he_ gave her the money to leave. Of course she wouldn’t stick around. Plutt himself is serving instead, somehow making the whole room greasier simply by existing in it.

It’s not long before Kylo is looking for fresh air, stepping out the side door for a moment of quiet. Not that the outside is much fresher, technically speaking. He wrinkles his nose and cups his hand to light a cigarette in the damp, mostly to drown out the smell.

The back alley is almost completely dark, other than the dim light of the half-moon. He’s shuffling to get comfortable against the wall when there’s a soft clatter somewhere to his left, followed by silence. It makes all the hairs on the back of his neck stand up. People only try to be quiet like that if they don’t want to be seen, and when people don’t want to be seen, it’s usually because they’re trying to kill him. It has been the last half dozen times, anyway.

Dropping his cigarette and stamping it out, he eases his gun out of the inside pocket of his coat. “Don’t sneak around,” he snarls into the quiet. “If you want something, come out and show your face.”

More silence. His eyes are starting to adjust to the dark, and he can see that there’s a sort of makeshift shed against the other end of the wall. Kylo starts to edge towards it, everything tensed, blood pounding in his ears. What he doesn’t expect is to hear a distinctly female voice cut through the blackness. And he doesn’t expect it to say, “oh, go _away_ ,” in exasperated tones.

He knows that voice. “Rey?”

“Just… Leave me alone,” she snaps. She’s definitely inside the shed. Which is strange, but also none of his business, and he’s about to do as she asks when she adds a soft, “please,” and there’s something all wrong about it. It’s too warbling for her, too plaintive. He doesn’t like the hopelessness there at _all_.

“Why are you…” Kylo gets closer and pushes at what he’s pretty sure is a door; he can’t see a goddamned thing and he’s certain he just stepped in dog shit. “What the hell are you doing?” Stuffing his gun back in his pocket, he finds his lighter instead, trying to see by the feeble light it gives off. He can see the shadowy form of someone curled up in the corner, and he inches over and crouches down, trying to see her and not knock into the brooms and other assorted things crammed into the space.

She has her face against her knees. “Please go away,” she says again, without lifting her head.

It’s not the most comfortable position in the world, half-sitting like this, but he can hold it. He doesn’t want to tower over her and make her feel more uncomfortable. “I thought you’d be long gone by now,” he says, absolutely choosing not to address the bloom of relief under his breastbone at getting to see her again, even under strange circumstances.

“I can never leave,” she says, still into her skirt. It’s the same grey dress, he notices, lowering the flame a little so he can see her more clearly.

“What about the money I gave you?”

She doesn’t say anything. The silence stretches longer and longer, and normally, Kylo would be feeling a tense and irritable curl of anger start to form at the base of his skull at being ignored like this. People are normally all too eager to do as he says.

Instead, the worry is mounting in his chest, making him shift and try again. “Rey? What about the money?”

At her name, she looks up. It takes him a few seconds to see it, because the lighter casts such deep shadows that it could have been a trick of the light. But it’s not, and a high-pitched whining sound starts in his ears when he sees the purpled and swollen skin around her eye, already starting to yellow at the edges. There’s a cut along her cheek— he recognises it as the kind that gets left by the scrape of a ring. He’s inflicted enough of those himself.

Even if she can only see out of one eye, she doesn’t look away. “He accused me of stealing it from him." She says it in a whisper but her voice is steady, without a trace of tears. Like she's too proud to allow them. “That there was no way that I could have made that money. Then he said that if I’d made it by whoring myself out, he deserved a cut, and that I should go out and earn it again. Starting now.”

The dying ear-cell noise is getting louder and it's making it hard to focus. Kylo tries to clear his throat, blinks a few times, hoping that if he raises the lighter a little closer, it will look better. It doesn’t. It looks worse. 

“I don’t want your pity,” she snaps, and even now, even crouched in a shed in an alley that reeks of shit, she has the dignity of a queen. It takes his breath away.

He’s never been terribly good at making decisions. It was a series of poor choices that led him to this place, to this _name_ , even, and he’s guilty of making a million snap judgements that didn’t even particularly feel good at the time. That’s his life. Ben Solo— Kylo Ren— disappointment to his parents, good at being a Bad Man who works for a Bad Organisation, no friends and no family. Does what he’s told and drinks to forget about it.

But this... He stands, puts the lighter away, feels the weight of his gun in his pocket. This is so different that the whole axis of his world is tilting. What he is about to do feels more right than anything he has ever done.

“Mr. Ren? What are you—,” Rey tries to push up on her arms and join him, but the dress makes it difficult for her to easily get to her feet.

He puts a hand to her shoulder to keep her sitting. “Stay here. I’ll be back in a bit.”

“What? Look, if this is about your money, I’ll earn it back— somehow—”

The rest is lost when the shed door swings shut and Kylo is already halfway back to the pub. Yes. The world narrows down to the essentials, blocking out everything that isn't important to his task. All he needs is ten minutes, maybe twenty, a cellar. He may not be a good man, but he is _very_ good at his job. 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It tickles me whenever I think about the fact that Kylo Ben falling this immediately and aggressively head over heels is actually _canon_


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is all garbage

She doesn’t stay put in the alley just because Mr. Ren told her to. Of this, Rey is quite certain.   

No, it’s because standing up would require her to untangle her legs from her dress, and to put her hands on the mucky ground, dirt mixed with soap swill and cooking grease. It’s because she doesn’t want to face any patrons with the bruise so clear on her face, and because she doesn’t feel like working for  _that bastard_  after he just clocked her a good one. Let him watch the bar himself.  

She’s thinking about leaving. She wasn’t so foolish as to show Plutt all the money that Mr. Ren gave her, just the £200. That leaves a very respectable £200 still tucked into her stockings, and another £42 8s. 4d. hidden under the floorboards in her attic room, squirrelled away over the course of a decade. All together, it’s considerably more money than she’s ever had at once in her life. More than enough to set up a new identity. She could just— steal some clothes from one of the members of the gang staying at the pub. Dress up as a boy. Dodge past all of Plutt’s scummier associates and sneak her way out of this neighbourhood.  

And then… and then what?  

She’s never been further than the butcher on Penny Lane. The train station is somewhere to the east, she knows that much, but could she figure it out before morning when Plutt or Teedo will notice she’s missing? How will her family find her, when they come back?  

If they come back. No,  _when_  they come back.  

And even if she gets on the train, where does she go? London, probably, would make the most sense- but she doesn’t know anything about it. She’s never even seen a map.  

 _And_  the money isn’t free, of course. She’ll have to pay Mr. Ren back someday, somehow. Rey always pays her debts. She’s very proud of this.  

More footsteps in the alley draw her from her thoughts. Not Plutt’s; he walks as if he’s trying to grind something underfoot. These belong to someone heavy, but they’re much more assured.  

“Rey?” It’s Mr. Ren again. She recognises the strange intonation of his voice, the American lilts and rounded vowels. It’s a very nice voice. She decided so when he was talking to her last night. It no doubt helps that it’s attached to a nice face, all interesting angles and soft looking hair. And dark eyes. Lonely looking eyes.  

He pushes the door open to the shed and crouches down again, flicking on his lighter so the angles of his cheekbones are thrown into sharp relief as before. It can’t be a comfortable pose, but he doesn’t seem to mind.  

Rey isn’t sure why he’s come back. “What?”  

“Plutt is never going to bother you again.”  

“… What?”  

“We had a conversation.”  

She snorts. “That’ll last as long as a day.”  

“I really don’t think so. It was a fairly final kind of conversation.”  

That’s when she sees the blood on his hands. It looks black in the dim light, covering his knuckles. Her throat seizes up as she looks at them, trying to understand. “When you say a conversation…”  

He says nothing. He's staring intently at her face; he’s a very intense sort of man, she thinks.  

“Did you… did you kill him?” It comes out as a squeak that she’s not very proud of.  

“I think it’s better if I don’t say.”  

Bugger.  _Bugger_. What does she do now? He was still her livelihood. Better the devil you know.  

“I’m going to ask you again,” Mr. Ren says gently, like he’s coaxing a scared cat. “I’d like you to come work for me.”  

“What?” She knows she’s starting to sound like a scratched record.  

“We can always use people with talents like yours. You can leave, if it turns out you don’t like it. But it’ll give you a new start.” Mr. Ren’s voice turns pleading, and she can’t understand why he cares so much. She’s not stupid; she knows what men want, but she’s scrawny and has lank brown hair and she doesn’t even own any powder. Mr. Ren seems rich enough that he probably wouldn’t even need to buy company, if he wanted it. “I don’t know if you would be able to take over the pub—” 

The suggestion is so absurd that it jolts her back to the present. “Plutt would never have trusted me with something like that. He’ll have made plans for it to go to one of his... Business partners, if things went sideways.”  

“I see. Then surely, a new start is a better option?”  

He’s not wrong.  

“We take the 16.02 back to London tomorrow. Can you be packed by then?”  

She could be packed in about ten minutes. “… Yes.”  

“Good. We’ll leave here at three-thirty on the dot. If you want to join, just bring your bags.”  

 

* * *

 

Rey spends a sleepless night staring at the ceiling of her cold, draughty room. She could stay. And wait. Fight for control of the pub with Teedo, see off the scum that will look to replace Plutt, wait for her parents to come back. She could keep doing the same thing over and over, until she works away her strength, and dreams, and her future. She could. It’s an option.  

At around four in the morning, she finally drifts off in a restless sleep and doesn’t wake until past noon. It’s strange that no one comes to get her up, but then she remembers that Plutt is now far beyond caring about such things. Beyond caring about anything, really.  

At two thirty, she puts her three dresses, two sets of stockings, and four worn pairs of knickers in a tattered carpet bag. The two novels that a patron once left behind go in there as well, just to make the bag feel a bit heavier, as if she needs it to match the weight of this decision.  

On her five thousandth, two hundredth and seventy-second day under Plutt’s roof, she walks down the stairs and doesn’t look back.  

 

* * *

 

Elephant and Castle has a six-street junction at its centre, and it’s the most chaotic thing that Rey has ever seen. The traffic rushes in from every direction, a jumble of trams and lorries and the occasional horse drawn carriage. Londoners come and go without looking sideways, confident and always rushing, rushing. There are automobiles and bicycles and even the Northern Line, which she isn’t sure if she likes. It doesn't feel right to go so far underground.  

The slum housing and poverty of the area are familiar enough. She saw plenty of that before. The dance palaces and music halls are something else entirely— glamorous and gilded even from the outside.  

Rey learns on her first day that the First Order has properties dotted around the area. Her lodgings are a small private room in a boarding house with a bed and a sink, for which she’s to pay six shillings and two pence a week. That feels like an appalling amount, but Mr. Ren seems to think it’s normal.  

The office is above a shabby looking lock making shop just around a corner, with a door in the back that leads up a narrow and small hallway. Mr. Ren guides her up a long gallery room with lots of tightly crammed desks, each with a typewriter. Books line the walls in locked cases with glass windows. The room is filled with cigarette smoke and men who glance up at her curiously when she walks in, but immediately look away as Mr. Ren's glare sweeps over the room.  

“We work in code so you’ll need to memorise that,” he explains, unlocking a cabinet and pulling out one of the large books. He leads her through to a separate office, decorated with an expensive looking desk and a leather wing-backed chair. Two big paintings of ships on stormy seas hang on the wall. “Do you know what trial balancing is?”  

“… No?”  

“It’s the process of taking all the information in different ledgers and making sure that the books balance.” He flips open the cover and shows her the rows of numbers. “We have two sets: there’s the ones the police see, and our actual accounts. I’ll need you to keep track of both.” His eyes flicker up to her. “Very few people know that, by the way. Keep it to yourself.”  

She wants to ask why he’s telling her these things. Why he’s bothering to teach her. What the benefit is to him.  

Instead, she picks up a pen and starts taking notes.  

 

* * *

 

On the second day, she meets Ms. Phasma, who stops in Mr. Ren’s doorway. She’s the tallest woman that Rey has ever seen, elegantly dressed in pristine white and with a perfect blond bob. The redness on her lips reminds Rey of a mouth smeared with blood.  

She looks Rey up and down with a critical eye after introductions. “Would you like to make some more money on the side?”  

“No,” Mr. Ren answers over her shoulder, immediate and stern.  

“I wasn’t asking you.”  

“Go away, Gwen.”  

Later, the only explanation she gets from Mr. Ren is something about Phasma managing ‘the girls’. Rey knows what that’s a euphemism for, but she doesn’t know why he cares.  

 

* * *

 

On the eighth day, her bruise has almost faded and the young man at the next desk over-  _Finn_ , she remembers- leans over as everyone is packing to leave. “Do you feel like going out?” He smiles, teeth a brilliant white against his dark skin. “Some friends and I are going to the elephant theatre- they're playing The Flag Lieutenant. It’s a comedy,” he adds, encouragingly, seeing her hesitate. “I’ll even spring for your ticket if you’d like. And we might go dancing afterwards, if that’s more to your taste.”  

Before, Rey didn’t have friends. Before, Rey didn’t have money. But now she definitely has money— on her first Sunday off, she went to a department store and bought two brand new skirts and three blouses and a hat and even a pink lipstick, and then she went back to her flat and tried them all on in front of her small mirror, giddy and breathless. The girl in the mirror looked like the kind of girl who had friends, who went dancing. “Who else is going?”  

“My friend Poe, he’s a laugh. Rose- we’ve been stepping out together, lately. Her sister Paige. Her friends Kaydel and Jessika, they’re both typists. It’ll be a good time.”  

For some reason, Rey glances at Mr. Ren’s door. He’s already been in the last four days when she arrived, and she never sees him leave at night. Sometimes she wonders if he leaves at all. Or if he just sleeps in that fancy chair.  

Finn is still looking at her expectantly. “I’ll pay for my ticket,” Rey says, “but you’ll buy me a drink, yeah?”  

“Yeah,” Finn agrees immediately, smile growing even wider. “You have a deal.”  

 

* * *

 

On the ninth day, she wakes up with a roaring headache and only a vague memory towards the end of the night before. There was a lot of laughter, she thinks. Kaydel made sure she got home, arms around each other as they staggered back to the boarding house, ignoring her sour landlady’s tight-lipped stare.  

“You look rough,” Mr. Ren comments when she steps into his office to collect some more of the private ledgers.  

“I went out dancing last night,” she says, and notices that his shoulders stiffen.  

“I see.” He forcibly relaxes and scribbles a few lines. “With anyone in particular?”  

“Finn introduced me to some of his friends.”  

The stiffness is immediately back, this time with a scowl.  

“Do you ever go dancing, Mr. Ren?”  

He looks at her like she just asked if he ever enjoys doing handstands naked on the roof of the Trocadero. “No.”  

“Would you…” She finds herself incredibly interested in the floorboards. “… Ever like to?”  

“No.”  

The rejection, as indirect as it is, still stings. “Oh. I see. Well I’ll just— I’ll just be going along, then.”  

 “... Wait, Rey—”  

But she’s already leaving and doesn’t feel like turning around and facing more embarrassment. She hears a smacking sound as she closes the door, like someone slapping their own forehead. 

 

* * *

 

On the fifteenth day, she finds Mr. Ren asleep on his desk. She tucks his coat around his shoulders and quietly creeps back out the way she came, but not before giving into the urge to brush his hair out of his eyes.  

It’s as soft as it looks.  

 

* * *

 

On the twenty third day, she finds her first serious set of errors in the ledgers. Any previous mistakes had all clearly been little missteps in tallying, a number carried wrong somewhere or an abacus bead flicked incorrectly. These are different. They’re in one of the encoded books, they’re consistent over time, and they add up to a significant number.  

She takes them to Mr. Ren.  

He accepts them with a frown. “I didn’t ask you to look at these.”  

“You didn’t?” The ledgers all look the same, same leather bindings and placed in the shelves. “I’m sorry, I’ve been working further when I get to the end of a set—”  

“It’s fine,” he murmurs, waving his hand vaguely. “I don’t check these because they’re not with our office.” She stands in front of his desk, fingers clasped together, as his frown grows deeper and deeper. “Send a message for Hux to come here, would you?”  

Rey sends a boy to run and get Mr. Hux, and she goes back to awkwardly hovering over Mr. Ren’s desk. “I didn’t make a mistake, right?”  

“Not at all.” He sounds grim, and something about it reminds her of when he had said he was going to deal with Plutt. “This is very... Irregular.”  

“Should I go?”  

“No, I’d like you to be here when he arrives.”  

It takes a good twenty-five minutes. Rey ends up perching on the edge of the desk, legs kicking aimlessly, while Mr. Ren fetches more and more ledgers. He smokes through two cigarettes, the room getting hazier and hazier as he angrily puffs away, a smoking dragon in the middle of his den. They books are spread out face open on the desk, and they’re what Mr. Hux sees first when he comes in.  

Mr. Ren doesn’t waste any time. “If you’re going to embezzle, you should be more subtle about it.”  

“Don’t be absurd.”  

“I don’t need to be. The record is there, clear as day. Little amounts, here and there— I’ve already found nearly sixty pounds’ worth. Are you a fool?”  

“This is a poor attempt to frame me, Ren.”  

“And to bury it in the politicians' gifts? Really?” Mr. Ren taps some ash against the red dish that balances near the edge of his desk. "Thought it wouldn't be noticed in the discretionary funds?" 

“Speaking of which, why were you even looking at those books? They aren’t yours to oversee, if I recall.” Mr. Hux’s eyes are flickering around the room. They keep landing back on Rey, like he’s trying to figure out why she’s there. “Has the newest hire made you so eager to stick your nose where it doesn’t belong?” 

Rey holds her tongue, hoping it lends her an air of dignity. Mr. Ren rumbles in the back of his throat. “Focus on me, Hux, if you want this to end without you at the bottom of the Thames.”  

Mr. Hux still looks completely unconcerned, nose twitching into a sneer. “So, I made a few accounting mistakes. Happens to the best of us, Snoke will understand. And besides, even if I had engaged in a little— creative accounting— a few small indiscretions are not beyond the pale. I turned a blind eye when you put your whore on payroll, didn’t I—” 

There’s a blur of movement and Mr. Ren, normally so rigidly and tightly held, lurches around his desk with a loose jerk and absolutely  _clocks_  Mr. Hux. He moves with his whole body and Rey stares, entranced, at the shift of his shoulders under his expensive jacket, the way that his knees bend and his entire torso rotates with the movement. It’s a monster unleashed in a few seconds before it retreats again, contained while Mr. Ren stands over Mr. Hux, the smaller man clutching his jaw and cursing up a storm from the floor. “Get out,” Mr. Ren snarls, waving his hand at the bruisers hovering by the door.  “Get out!”  

“I swear to God, Ren, I’m going to—”  

“What, tell Snoke that I dropped you like a sixty-pound child? Not if you don’t want me bringing these irregularities to his attention. Get the fuck out of my office, and know, _I am watching you_.”  

Mr. Hux staggers to his feet. He holds himself still— only for a moment, almost as if simply to show that he can stand there without immediately fleeing— but then darts away anyway, slamming the door so hard that the expensive paintings jostle against the wall.  

Silence rings in his wake.  

"I don’t really care if he’s stealing from Snoke,” Mr. Ren finally says, words tumbling out like they’re racing to leave his mouth. He's staring at his shoes like his life depends on it. “I don’t give a shit. But he can’t talk about you like that.”  

She should probably thank him. Or scold him. Or explain that it doesn’t matter, because she’s been called much worse. Instead, what happens is that she says “oh,” in a terrible soft sort of way, like it’s been pushed up from her stomach and out of her lips against her will. The room feels very hot. Especially around her face.  

She must look very silly and sort of dumbstruck. She thinks this because Mr. Ren meets her eyes and his face slips into that exact expression, and it’s too ridiculous to not be mirroring her own.  

There should have been a lot of distance to cover, given their height difference and the step between them. But he closes the space in no time at all and when he presses his mouth to hers, it’s everything Rey hoped and more, soft and sweet and urgent all at once.  

It’s unbearably soon when he pulls away, panic in his eyes. “That— is that—” 

She answers by wrapping her arms around his neck and pulling him back down. They rock on the spot, like they’re swaying in a wind that no one else can see, clinging to each other more and more tightly. The heat of the room is only climbing and Rey thinks she’s going to combust soon, or possibly melt, fuse against Mr. Ren in a way that means they can never be apart again. She doesn’t think she’d mind. His jacket feels soft under her fingertips and she’s locked in the solid hold of his arms, and she can’t think of anywhere she’d rather be.  

His lips looks swollen when he draws away. Hers must too. They feel swollen, tender and hot. “I...” Mr. Ren clears his throat. “Miss Rey, would you like to go dancing with me?”  

“I thought you don't dance?”  

“I don’t.” He at least has the good grace to look embarrassed. “But if I remember correctly...” Hooking one hand in hers and placing the other on her waist, he shuffles a few steps, leading her around the rug. “It’s not too difficult.”  

Rey doesn’t know how to dance properly. She only knows how to listen to jazz and wriggle her body aimlessly, but with him leading, she feels like she could learn. “Maybe we could practice together. Put on some records. You could...” She looks up at him through her lashes. “Show me the steps.” 

His Adam’s apple bobs as he swallows. “Tonight?”  

It’s just an agreement to dance. But it’s a lot more, as well, and Rey feels like the tips of her fingers are tingling. “Tonight.”  

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Me: Yeah! Finishing WIPs! Gonna get this done! Yeah!!  
> Me:  
> Me: This is going to need another chapter  
> Me:  
> Me: _fuck_


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here's [**the song quoted at the beginning of the chapter.**](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=JctNtRfHRLU)
> 
> This chapter is what you've all been here for since the first, hey-o!

_We’re all alone, no chaperone can get our number…_  

Kylo adjusts his tie in the mirror for the eighty sixth time. He’s picked some ragtime records, one of which is now spinning merrily in his gramophone, and there’s a tumbler of sherry on the side. He’s moved one of the chairs aside to make room. Everything a person could need to give a dance lesson.  

 _…_   _The world’s in slumber- let’s misbehave!_  

He looks pale in the glass. He should’ve had his hair cut. It’s far longer than is fashionable, brushing the edges of his collar. But then, he hates having his ears visible. There’s no winning in this scenario. His mother could have told him as much.   

 _There’s something wild about you child, that’s so contagious…_  

The clock shows ten minutes to seven. Which means that Rey will be here soon. Beguiling, beautiful Rey, who has started painting her mouth in bright colours that drive him mad. Clever Rey who learned his systems faster than anyone in living memory, by at least one order of magnitude. Sweet, sharp Rey who has charmed the entire office without lowering herself in any way. He had expected a lot more fuss about a woman in such a key position, but she smoothed ruffled feathers with an expertise that could only be cultivated by a decade as a barmaid. There isn’t a man in the office not mooning after her. Himself included.  

 _…_   _Let’s be outrageous- let’s misbehave!_  

The pitch of his nerves is absurd. Fumbling a cigarette out of the case, he holds it in his teeth and flicks a match, trying to stop his hands from trembling. He’s killed people- many,  _many_  people, with significantly less anxiety than this. She’s just a girl.  

 _They say that spring means just one thing to little love birds…_  

Except she isn’t just a girl, she’s Rey, and he’s at risk of swooning like a fucking schoolgirl when he thinks about her being in his house. The cigarette finally catches and it helps as he breathes it in, some of the tenseness leaving his shoulders, body growing looser and more limber. More confident.  

 _… We’re not above birds_   _—_   _let’s misbehave!_  

He doesn’t remember the lyrics of this song being quite so… forward. Maybe he should put on something a little calmer. Some Etta Jones. Ella Fitzgerald. He doesn’t even know what Rey likes— he should’ve asked. But that, of course, would require actually talking to her. Bloody terrifying.  

 _If you’d be just so sweet and only meet your fate, dear- it’d be the great event of 1928, dear…_  

This is going to be fine. It’s just a dance lesson. And, well, if he changed his sheets and made sure to wear a bit of cologne, that doesn’t necessarily mean anything.  

 _… Let’s misbehave!_    

His pulse is so loud in his ears that he nearly misses the knock at the door.  

 

* * *

 

“You have a very nice home.”  

Rey’s cheeks are pinked as she stands in his doorway, maybe from the cold outside. There’s a pretty hat— or maybe it’s just pretty because she’s wearing it— and some errant curls are peeking out from under it.  

He holds his hands out for her coat and she shimmies out of it nervously, and he changes his mind. The hat is ugly. But the  _dress_ , the dress is beautiful, pink and shimmery and clinging against her skin. The kind of fabric you want to reach out and run between your fingers. Or perhaps his brain is just looking for any kind of reason to touch her.  

She looks up at him expectantly and Kylo realises he’s staring like an idiot. “Would you like something to drink?   

Rey ducks her head in a jerky nod and they both shuffle to his sitting room.  

She drifts towards the music as he pours the drinks. “I like this song,” she says, running a finger along the wooden edge of the gramophone, Irving Aaronson still crooning softly about love and tenderness. “It must be very nice to be able to listen whenever you’d like. I’m jealous.”  

 _You can have it_ , he wants to say, handing her a glass.  _The player and the records._ _In fact, wh_ _y don’t you just move in?_  

Insanity. 

They fall into silence. “Would you like to…” Kylo gestures limply towards the empty space with his wrist and immediately wishes that he could take it back, and also die.  

“Oh. Yes, please.”  

They awkwardly set their drinks aside, barely sipped, and come together. He’s unbearably sweaty. Once he has their hands clasped and one against her waist, though, everything is fine— better than fine. His palm looks huge against her waist and he shuffles a little, trying to refocus. The top of her head barely meets his nose. “I’ll count to make this simpler if you can follow along. Ready? One, two, one, two…”  

She’s not very good at it. Rey seems obstinately determined not to follow his lead, rocking against him so aggressively that it’s a struggle to keep his face straight. She grumbles into his chest. “This is much harder than it looks.”  

“You just need a teacher.”  

“Why does dancing need to have rules?”  

“So we don’t step on each other’s feet. Focus— one, two, one, two...”  

She stares down doubtfully. “I don’t think you’d even notice if I stepped on your feet.”  

She chooses that exact moment to tread on his toes and Kylo winces. “I promise you I would.”  

He only needs to count for another minute or so before she gets the hang of it, anticipating his movements. As the song winds down, they even manage a spin, and she laughs with such delightful freeness that it makes his throat constrict. When the music stops, though, she ends up pressed against his chest, staring up at him with wide eyes, face just inches from his own.  

And then they’re kissing, again, and it’s just as nice as it was before. Soft. She tastes like the sherry, and she smells like flowers.  

He ought to be taking this more slowly, but when was the last time he did what he ought? They move in stumbling steps, all the coordination and the pretense of dancing gone, as he tries to guide them to the door. “Should we— to my room—”  

“Yes yes  _yes_ ,” Rey mumbles against his lips, and it’s the best thing he’s heard all week. All  _year_. Maybe all his life.  

 

* * *

 

He changes his mind. The dress is ugly, but the slip underneath is incredible. White and silky and edged with lace, he can see the shadow of her nipples as he hovers over her on the bed, everything cast into shadow by the guttering lamp. Her face is nearly as pink as the dress was, chest rising and falling in a rapid stacatto that sounds better than any music.  

When Rey speaks, it’s a whisper. “I wish you wouldn’t stare.”  

“Why not?” His jacket and shoes are off but everything else seems like too much work right this minute. “You’re beautiful.”  

Her hands snake up to cover her face. “You’re being ridiculous.”  

“I’m not.”  

The hands snap back to his mattress and wrap tightly into the sheets when he edges the slip up her thighs, desperate to get a look underneath. Her eyes are screwed shut as he unclips the stockings and grabs the edge of the bloomers to tug them down, mouth dry as a desert as he gets a look at her thighs and the curly brown hair between her legs. Her stockings puddle around her ankles as he works the bloomers off so he pulls those away for good measure, leaving her pale long calves exposed. 

As soon as he gets the fabric hooked off her ankles, she snaps her legs together and glares down at him. “You have to get undressed too.”  

So Kylo fiddles with the buttons and shrugs out of his shirt, only stopping to preen a  _little_ when her eyes go wide at the sight of his undershirt stretched taut across his chest. By the time he gets that off too, she’s scooted down to him to throw her arms around his neck, kissing him again with enthusiasm that makes his head spin. She’s messy and unpractised, which shouldn’t be a surprise because of the way that she eats, but is still kind of charming. Any lack of finesse is made up for with enthusiasm. His hair must look like a bird’s nest from the way that she keeps raking her hands through it. Rey’s looks no better, long teased out of their beautiful rolls by his enthusiasm. Teamwork, yes— that’s why they work so well together, and it’s teamwork that they’re using when they’re working to get his trousers off, fumbling with his belt and yanking the waist down.  

There are things that he feels like he should say before she sees his dick. “I,” he mumbles, trying to hop out of his trouser leg while still kissing her, “think that you are— that you’re—” 

“You don’t need to force false compliments.” Then she bites his lower lip like an animal and it hurts but Kylo also thinks he likes it.  

“I’m not lying.” It’s less offended than he’d like, because now all that’s left is his underwear and she’s tracing her hands along the bottom of his stomach and it’s hard to focus like that.  

“It’s okay. I like you, and you’ve been good to me, and that’s what matters.”  

The words filter through his brain terribly slowly. When they finally reach a place where he can process them, Kylo grabs her wrist and yanks them back to the bed, pushing her back to the pillows. “Isn’t it important that I like you too?”  

Her lips are so pink. Does he have that paint on his mouth now too? She looks thoroughly kissed. And he’d like to kiss her some more. “I’m sure you have your pick of plenty, I know how this works.”  

“Why are... What does...” Kylo does a lot of thinking for a living. There’s a lot of hitting things and occasionally shooting them too, yes, but the reason why he’s not a simple bruiser is because he also has a brain. But for the  _life_ of him, he can’t figure out how other women factor into what is happening at the moment.  

Rey won’t meet his eyes. “You just... Don’t have any obligations. After.”  

He wants to have all the obligations. And even though his little brain is absolutely raging at him, he carefully lifts off her and shuffles to sit on the edge of the bed. His floor is cold when his feet touch the wood. “If that’s the case, I’m not sure that I want to do this.”  

“What?” It’s devastated, which he doesn’t like, but he holds his ground.  

“I’m not really a one-time kind of man, Rey.”  

Now it’s her turn to look confused. Which doesn’t make any sense. “You aren’t?” 

“Have I given you that impression?”  

“You...” She licks her lips, slowly, and her eyes look over-bright. “You offered me a job after knowing me for five minutes. You’ve changed my whole life for the better, and I’m just... I’m just some girl from nowhere.”  

There aren’t words to explain how wrong she is. She flipped his entire life and held it by the ankle the moment they met, and she hasn’t let up since. “You...” This moment is important. Kylo can feel it. He takes her hand, tracing their fingertips together. “You and I could change the world together, if we wanted. I’ve never met anyone else like you. You have to shake that past off, and I want...” He clears his throat, which feels hot and scratchy. “I want you to never be alone again.”  _I want to never be alone again_. 

He can’t look up, but her hand lifts to his cheek. Traces the line of his scar. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have. I’m sorry.”  

“You don’t need to be.”  

She answers him by kissing him and crawling into his lap, pressing the soft silkiness of her slip to his chest. His hands slide up her thighs until he can press his thumbs to the indents of her hipbone, stroking circles there; Rey seems to like that a lot, if her intensifying wiggling is any indication. “I like you,” she whispers, drawing away just a fraction of a breath, “a lot. And it scares me.”  

“I know the feeling.”  

Her watery laugh is broken off when they roll back onto their sides again, semi-wrestling against his bed. Her legs are wrapped around his hips, now, and there’s just the thinnest layer of fabric between them, his underwear getting damp from grinding against her. Her slip slides off the top of her head easily and he's _finally_ able to gain access to her breasts, small and perky and taut when he rolls the nipple in his mouth.  

Kylo is content to do this for a little while, but she seems to have other ideas. Her little fingers hook against his waistband and she's pushing them down, the elastic digging into his hips, impatient and sweet and everything he ever wanted. His cock springs up against his stomach and she's immediately trying to sink down on him, but he stills her by sliding his hand up to cup between her legs. 

"Let me warm you up first," he shushes, sliding one finger against her, gently pressing in. She's soaking wet but still tight, and her forehead thuds against his shoulder as she pants, breath hot against his chest. He works slowly, in and out, twisting, until he can press two fingers in, knuckles tight against each other. Like with their dancing, she won't just follow his lead. She keeps twisting and rocking in his arms, grunting and mewling in the back of her throat, rocking her hips like she can't decide whether she wants to get closer or further away. He minds less now than he did when they were dancing. 

"Please," she wails out, "please just— please just do it, I want it in me, please, please, please—"

He'd have to be dead to decline that invitation. "Hang on," he mumbles, groping around for the little paper packet sitting in his bedside table. It might not feel as good, but he also doesn't feel amazing about the idea of little Kylos running around before he's married— despite shaking off most of his mother's teachings, that one still lingers. It's a quick pause, anyway, and once he has the rubber rolled on, he shifts Rey onto her back and settles in between her legs. 

The first press has her wincing. It's probably wrong that feeling like a bit of a bastard makes him harder, and he grabs one of her legs and lifts it over his shoulder, trying to open her up wider. Her breasts are heaving and he feels like he's soothing a spooked animal, stroking and murmuring softly as he slicks himself up, working in and out, in and out, a little deeper each time. "It's okay, I've got you... Shh..." 

When he's fully inside, she's staring at him with wide eyes like he's a god, awed and contrite all at once. It strokes his ego like nothing else. 

And once he starts to move, for the first time, she immediately follows his lead. 

No more subtly bickering with him for control or charging ahead. She rocks as he rocks, the palms of her hand rubbing his shoulders, looking down at where they're joined without the slightest ounce of shame. Which is good. She shouldn't be ashamed, because she's perfect. The dulled sensation of the condom is probably a blessing, because it means that he can maintain control even though this is _Rey_. He's going to have her every way he can think of. Everywhere. Against the sofa, over his desk, in the store cupboard at work. He's going to ruin her little work skirts and smear that lipstick everywhere. Make sure that everyone sees her rumpled hair, her shy blush. Make sure that everyone knows. 

Rey is chanting his name like she also can't quite believe any of this is happening, breath catching with each thrust. And as he turns his mind to her pleasure, Kylo realises that if he hitches her hips a little higher, the angle will be better for rubbing with his thumb— and apparently it's better in its own right as well, because she wails and tightens up around him, and pleasure licks up his spine with an aggressively worrying enthusiasm. So tight. So hot. 

By the time she convulses and cries, bucking and scratching down his back, it's a miracle that he hasn't lost control. But it means blessed relief on top of pleasure when he can finally un-tense, letting his own orgasm pour through him as he empties into the condom. It's more exhausting than running a race, more exhilarating than a kill. He has the presence of mind to grasp the base as he pulls out, tugging it off and balling it into a tissue before total exhaustion takes over. 

His chest is heaving when he flops down next to her. Their fingers find each other in the dark, homing pigeons looking for home, and Kylo's heart feels fuller than he believed possible. 

 

* * *

 

 

Rey has pulled the slip back over her head— a damned pity— when Kylo gives into one of his more insane urges. "You should marry me." 

"Don't be ridiculous." 

"I'm not being ridiculous. I want you to marry me." 

"You barely know me." 

It seems a ridiculous thing to say when they're both mostly naked, but he retreats a little. "Fine. May I court you?" 

Her giggle is soft and perfect. "I'll think about it." 

"Let's go dancing. Tomorrow." 

"You're very insistent, aren't you?" 

"Is that a yes?" 

"Maybe." 

It only takes two minutes of kissing her neck and tickling her waist for her to admit through shrieking laughter that yes, _yes_ , she will go dancing with him and more besides, and he can court her, and if he's _very_ good, she might even marry him.  

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I FINISHED A FIC I FINISHED A FIC. -banging pots and pans-
> 
> This became _so_ much more saccharine than I intended, I guess that's the mood for today!
> 
> If you enjoyed this work, I'd be grateful if you shared [**this piece of art work on tumblr (it's mine), as it comes with a link to the fic attached.**](https://thepoetdraws.tumblr.com/post/181089610955/thepoetdraws-back-from-art-hiatus-with-more) It's also the way I imagine Kylo in this piece :) :) :)


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